I call this piece “In Between”:

Living the days, by the hand. Reliving the nights, all over again.

It is a mix of balance and diving head first in sand.

Taking back stories, achieving the boring. Going to the stacks, digging deeper for bones.

It is a dream but it is real.

Drowning puppets in the sweet, fresh ocean. Riding waves of darkness for a distant, dim light.

It is a swing of clean and dirty emotion.

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This one is “Traffic”:

Thoughts screaming, ideas pushing each other.

Now I’ve reached what I longed for … ?

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Oscar Wilde can write. When it comes to fables and fairy tales, he rules. check his “The Nightingale and the Rose“:

“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.”

“So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.”

I can’t resist to put 2 lines from his must-read “The Picture of Dorian Gray“:

“In nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place.”

“The next day he did not leave the house, and indeed, spent most of his time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself.”